


Your Soul's Safe With Me

by puptownfunk



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Inaccurate Timeline, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 13:09:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8103673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puptownfunk/pseuds/puptownfunk
Summary: It’s Ryan and it’s Capetown and it’s my heart on his fucking sleeve. (Left my soul in Capetown)





	

_April 16, 2009_

It’s Ryan and it’s Capetown and it’s my heart on his fucking sleeve. And I know what he’s thinking by the way he’s looking anywhere but here. If this was a different day or place, I’d hold his chin until he met my gaze. I’d whisper _kaleidoscope eyes_ \- breathe it, really, and he’d love me again and everything would be perfect again.

But it’s today and it’s here and it’s been a long time coming. I’ve angled myself so none of me is touching any of him. He can break me without feeling the aftermath shatter over him.

I can pick up the pieces by myself. I’ve done it before.

 

_October 13, 2004_

Ryan’s seats are leather and I can’t stop apologizing. I’m wet and shaking and I’m still clutching my guitar because I couldn’t leave it in the trunk. It’s all I have left and all I am. This fucking guitar. 

When I called him, I told myself we were friends. Maybe it was wide-eyed admiration on my part and general tolerance on his, but it was friends and that was enough. 

But the way he’s holding my hand while driving and I’m _still_ crying. “It’s going to be okay,” he tells me over and over. I’m clinging to him with one hand and my guitar with the other. I can’t stop thinking about the way she asked me _was it worth it?_ An armful of clothes and one foot out the door, and all she had to say was that. _Was it worth it?_

I don’t know, okay, I don’t fucking know. I’m telling Ryan this - I’m sobbing it, really, and I know he doesn’t understand but he nods and squeezes my hand anyway. “I know,” he tells me and I hope he never has to. 

There’s a clap of thunder and I flinch; two hours of wandering, no home, no family, nothing but my fucking inadequacy and the lightning, wishing it would strike me for _once_. Ryan notices, he always notices, and he pulls over, climbing me into the backseat and tugging me with him. He wraps his arms around me, telling me it’ll be okay, telling me I can stay with him as long as I want. 

My heart is beating out of my chest and I’m broken and in love and I want to fuck this up even more - the only person I’ve ever loved and I open my mouth, ready to let the forbidden feelings spill out, ready to tell my midnight muse that he’s the fucking sun to me. 

But before I can, he kisses me. 

 

_April 16, 2009_

Ryan laughs, angry and bitter, and I flinch. Only I can make him laugh like that and it hurts to know that. 

“Remember our first kiss?” He’s looking at me with a mix of derision and disappointment and I realize he thinks I don’t remember. 

I bite my lip so hard it bleeds and nod. “Out of pity,” I tell him, my voice a hoarse whisper. He’s on the brink of leaving me - now’s as good of any a time to be honest.

I’m expecting anger and denial, but his eyes are hurt and confused. 

“On your side,” I add, to clarify. Never from me, nothing from me was anything but love in the excess. I need him to know that - he can break me a thousand times over but I need him to know I _loved_ him. 

“Brendon,” he says quietly, moving closer. I draw back but he pulls me to him and I give up. How can I do anything with Ryan besides give up and give in? 

“Brendon,” he repeats, his hand on my face. “Brendon, do you really think that?”

I take a shaky breath, thinking our future lies in my answer. “Yes,” I tell him. 

 

_April 14, 2005_

“Again, from the top,” Ryan tells us. 

It’s been two hours on Camisado. My voice is sore and I know Spencer’s sick of this song, and we exchange a look but start from the top anyway, obedient as always. Ryan’s just as exhausted and he pushes us for a reason. 

But Brent isn’t playing and his jaw is set. Ryan looks at him. 

“It’s good enough,” Brent tells him. And he’s right, it is good enough, but it’s not perfect. 

“Good enough didn’t get us signed,” Ryan says, his voice tight and his eyes blazing.

“Listen, man, you need to fucking _chill_. Brendon can barely fucking sing. We’re all exhausted, especially you, and good enough is good enough.”

“I can sing,” I try to say, but my voice is cracked and hoarse. Spencer winces sympathetically.

Ryan’s face is stony and unreadable. “Okay,” he says finally. “We’ll record again tomorrow.”

Brent nods and claps Ryan’s back. “Go get some rest.”

Spencer goes too, hugging us briefly. “I’ll see you guys tonight,” he says, looking at me meaningfully. _You can fix it_ , he mouths behind Ryan’s back.

Ryan sighs, sinking down on to the floor. I slide down next to him and he leans against me. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles and I shake my head.

“Don’t apologize,” I tell him. “I don’t think - it’s harder for Brent and Spencer to understand. There’s no one they have to prove wrong.”

He looks up with a smile, lopsided and genuine. “Yeah,” he says, pressing his lips against my temple. “ _We’re_ different.”

I wonder if he knows what he does to me. If he ever suspects how badly I want to be a part of anything that includes him. 

“I can play bass,” I add, knowing it will make him happy. Small acts of manipulation like kindness, wanting to make him need me like I need him. 

His eyes are probing mine and he kisses me suddenly. When we pull apart, he’s smiling. “I love you.”

 

_April 16, 2009_

Ryan is yelling, ferocity dipped with passion and frustration and something that’s almost enough like love. 

But almost enough isn’t enough and I stay quiet. He yells until there’s nothing left but teary eyes and tired mouths. And then he leans onto me, looking vulnerable and terrified. “Do you love me?” 

“Yes,” I tell him, without thinking, without missing a beat. It’s the truest thing I’ve ever said. I loved him two weeks in, I loved him before he kissed at me or looked at me like I mattered. Everything he did, everything he fucking is - it could only magnify how I felt. I don’t think I could ever fall out of love with him, not even if he broke me piece by piece. There’s no way out, only deeper in. 

“Then please,” he begs, his voice breaking. “Please, Bren, fucking say something. I love you so much and I’m trying, I’m fucking _trying_.”

“I’m trying too,” I whisper. I’m trying not to think that I’m the one in love and he’s the one leaving. I’m trying not to mention that I loved him first and I loved him harder. 

He doesn’t know what trying is.

 

_July 28, 2006_

Ryan told Spencer and Jon before finding me and burying himself into me. I’ve seen him cry once before, but never like this. 

I don’t know what to do but hold him and press kisses on his hair. I can’t say it’s going to be okay, I can’t fix his childhood, I can’t bring his dad back. All I can do is say here, finally telling him the truth about how fucking much I love him. 

Ryan tears himself from my shirt, his face wet with tears. “I think I killed him,” he whispers and my heart fucking _breaks_. I want to protect him from every terrible emotion and every bad thought and every person who’s ever hurt him. I want to wrap him up in my arms and keep him here forever, safe from the world outside. Just me and him and sometimes Jon and Spencer. 

“You didn’t,” I say, adamant. “Ry, I promise you didn’t. Please believe me.”

He curls back into me, quiet. I know he doesn’t believe me and it hurts more every second.

I think I hear him say “okay” hours later, when I’m drifting out of consciousness. But I never find out if that’s him or if that’s me, wishing more than ever to fix everything for him. 

 

_April 16, 2009_

Ryan’s voice is raw and tinged with pain. Mine is broken and tinged with self-loathing. So we stay quiet, falling in between touches and separation.

Until there’s a clap of thunder and a lightning of fear strikes through me. He wraps himself around me without hesitation, kissing me over and over again. It’s then I realize how wet my face is and how much I need him to _stay_. 

“Don’t go,” I manage to say. “Please.”

He kisses me again. “I’m staying,” he promises. And I don’t know if he means through the storm or through everything, but I’ll take what I can get. 

 


End file.
